


The life I needed all along

by Quente



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: And quitting school, I can't figure out if this is gen or not, M/M, This is about coming of age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 10:17:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13005633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quente/pseuds/Quente
Summary: I readthis quotationand it fucked me right up, so  I knew I had to write about it:"When filming on ‘Call Me By Your Name’ wrapped at summer’s end, Chalamet found it difficult to resume a normal life in New York, where the intensity of daily life carried a much colder energy. ‘I struggled deeply in the fall,’ he said. 'Going back to school and feeling like what’s happened? Did that just happen?’"Title fromFutile Devices.





	The life I needed all along

Timothée's still nineteen. He's sitting in a classroom on a cold September day, staring down at the teacher in the Columbia lecture hall. The class is Classics 101, Greek and Roman, and Timothée took it on a whim -- something in his heart wanted to continue what he'd been learning during the summer, during his two-month shoot that plunged him head first into learning Greek and Roman history in the first place.

The only problem was, Timothée needed an end goal. It was easy to pick things up when there was a final product, something concrete to pour his creativity into. Like a movie, a strange one about love and longing in the 80s, that gave shape to his creative efforts and somehow allowed him to remember everything. (The things he learned: Italian, guitar, riding a bike, kinda sorta swimming but not really. How to touch a man erotically.)

Now, the syllabus stretched in front of him like a road map to nowhere, and Timothée felt nothing but alone. Next to him on either side were ruggedly handsome New York hipsters, young men who'd also had the good fortune to end up at an Ivy League school in the heart of New York City. He knew he should feel lucky to be there; instead, he stared at the blond fuzz lining the jaw of the guy in front of him, and wondered if it would feel as rough as Armie's stubble against his neck.

Armand Hammer. Armie.

Five minutes later Timothée broke out of his reverie, a visceral memory of rain-drenched meadows and mud and the earthy smell of Armie's sweat in his nose, and realized he was lost. Not just in class, but in his own hometown.

~

Nineteen years old in Crema, Timothée felt like the warm heartbeat at the center of a creative body. Lying on the grass waiting for the shoot to begin, he felt (as if they were the extension of his own being) the movements of the crew around him. There was Sayombhu, staring contemplatively at light glancing off the moss-covered pool. There was Luca, talking close to Armie near the steps into the house. 

Today was a good day. Luca and Armie's chemistry was gelling, not exploding. They were talking intimately, they'd had dinner the night before, and maybe something was worked out between them. Timothée glanced over, felt a momentary wave of something -- a longing to insert himself into that chat, perhaps, although he knew it was impossible when those two were off and running -- and sighed quietly to himself. 

The grass was soft, the sun was out; it was a rare sunny day, and summer soaked deep and warm into his skin. Timothée didn't want to move, not even to go soak in wisdom from Luca and Armie.

(Timothée was learning more and more about Armie as the weeks went by -- and one of the things he learned was that Armie had a sensitivity that belied his "muvi star" persona. A stray word from Luca could send Armie into a tailspin, and Timothée had to listen patiently to the bewildered rants as they strolled through the little town.

"I don't know how to give him what he needs," Armie would say, staring into the puffy clouds.

Armie was nearly a decade older than Timothée, but Timothée sometimes felt wiser. Maybe it was the difference between having supportive parents and -- clearly -- not having them. But maybe in retaliation, Armie had a backbone to him and a stubborn hunger for authentic work. Timmy pointed this out.

"You and Luca both want the same thing. You both want every scene to be real."

Armie stopped walking and looked at him. "I mean. Okay. But he doesn't communicate --"

"Does he need to? I think you know when Luca says something that hits home." Timothée turned to walk away, and after a moment, heard those heavier footsteps slowly follow.

Silence meant Armie was thinking about it. There was so much to think about. But what was important is that Armie shut up and listened.)

And nearly asleep, basking in the birdsong and cool grass against his warm skin, Timothée finally heard footsteps approach.

"Hey you." Armie crouched down, reached a hand out to delicately move some of Timothée's hair away from his forehead. They'd developed a lexicon of touch together, something that made Timothée's stomach flutter and his senses all wake up, and he couldn't figure out whether he was so deep in Elio's head that it was fucking him up or if it was just being nineteen.

"They ready?" Timothée clambered up to sitting. Armie's eyes were smiling, his fingers moving to tug a curl.

"Let's go flirt by the pool." 

"Sounds fun."

~

Hanukkah in New York City. A bus splattered him with the residue of gutter slush, and it soaked through to his skin. There was a textbook under his arm about something, and luckily it wasn't also washed with dirt and ice, not that Timothée cared. The sky in December felt close, too close. It was near his birthday, and Timothée would soon be 20.

Something had to change.

Six months since he'd left Crema, and he'd been hesitant to text Armie much. But when Timothée looked at his phone, the frequency turned out to be something like once or twice a week. He took a photo of the dirty slush in the New York street and the wet patch on his leg, sending it to Armie with a wistful emoji. 

Timothée started walking again, knowing that Armie would get it. At least Timothée's apartment was comfortable. His two roommates were busy doing their own things -- deep in the crazy scene that was the New York art world -- but his room was private and warm and he wanted nothing more than to huddle under his covers and daydream about summer for a while.

Crossing the street, he felt the buzz in his pocket and fished out his phone.

"Come visit," the text said, simple and short.

"I can't, got class."

"Why?" Came the response. "You're an actor. Act."

Timothée stopped and stared at the text for a long moment, feeling the trembling truth of it sink down into his bones. Armie gave him truth for truth. It felt like he was playing at being a student, learning things without an end result, forgetting just as quickly.

The words of Armie's text felt visceral, like a hand held out to him that he could take, if he wanted to, to lift him somewhere else.

After Timothée's long silence, the phone buzzed again.

"C'mon. Say yes."

~

Acting -- Timothée thought abstractly, shirtless and wrestling with Armie on a small cot of a bed -- Acting sure was weird. But instead of simply feeling weird, he felt ... something else. Intoxicated? In love? 

Maybe: turned on by the slide of skin against skin, by the stickiness of the peach he'd rubbed on his abdomen, pretending to jerk off into his shorts. It was tough to get hard surrounded by a small group of his favorite filmmaking friends, but the second Armie leaned down to mouth at the skin below his belly button, Timmy knew he'd have to simply let it happen.

They'd agreed, during some late night conversation, that if they got hard while filming it was a normal physical reaction and meant nothing except that they were being authentic to the moment. "We have to let our egos go," Armie told him, seriously. "Let the characters fill us up."

That was fine. A besotted 17 year old wasn't much different from Timothée, besotted by everything he saw and felt in Crema, at 19. He'd never felt so much like he belonged somewhere in his life, and if he got hard -- not a single person on set, from the lovely woman who patted his skin with powder to the grip in the corner -- would mention it or care.

It wasn't as simple as being in love with Armie. 

It was something else. Maybe Timothée was in love with who he was, in Crema, in bed with Armie, surrounded by the crew, awash in this transformative vision of Luca's. 

And that was it, wasn't it? 

Leaning forward, desperately seeking Oliver's mouth with Elio's, only to feel the gentleness of the touch of someone who truly understood him to the core -- it undid him, both of him, Elio and Timothée. 

Timothée was in love with giving himself to something so thoroughly that he was forever different afterwards; he felt so different during the experience that it changed the very core of him, like magic, into a different creature.

~

"Yes," Timothée said breathlessly, staring up at Armie from the front porch of his Beverly Hills home.

"You're a funny one," Armie said, shaking his head. "If you'd given us some kind of advanced warning beyond 'I'm at the gate, let me in,' a minute ago, we might have planned for you. Right now Elizabeth is shitting herself to make up your bed. Don't fuck with a southern woman who feels less than hospitable."

Timothée laughed, leaped up the steps, and gathered Armie into a full-body hug, squeezing hard because it felt like all the warmth and sunshine in the world was in his arms.

"Oof -- hey now, you okay?" Armie hugged back, unreservedly, cuddling him close. It reminded Timothée of being Elio again, comforted and consoled by the myrrh scent of Armie's -- Oliver's -- skin, feeling the press of gentle lips against his hair.

Timothée tucked his head under Armie's chin, seriously the only man in the world who could do that for him, and just held on.

"Now I am," Timothée said. "I quit school. I'm going to act."

Armie said nothing, but his arms tightened, and Timothée could feel Armie's smile against his forehead.

"Good."

**Author's Note:**

> I have some [drabbles in this fandom over at Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/nothing2fic).


End file.
